


When Will You Come Home? (How Much Longer Do I Have To Hold Strong)

by AmazonQueen22



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:59:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmazonQueen22/pseuds/AmazonQueen22
Summary: Diary entries of a single mother during a war, whose eldest son fights.





	1. Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> First work on this site. Constructive criticism always welcome! Updates will be rare.

December 26th, 1914  
Journal,

Christmas this year has been dismal. Nobody quite knows what to say or how to feel, save sorrow. They said he would be home by Christmas. That they all would be. They lied. 

Little Linda was hit the hardest. I’ve caught her crying countless times, crying for a lost brother. I don’t know how to help her. How can I, when I am no better myself? John brought light into all of our lives, made them worth living. He always held Linda when she cried, comforted her when I couldn’t. He was the best brother or son you could ever ask for. Now he’s gone, lost to the monster that is war. 

We don’t know if he’ll come home. All we can do is hope. But what is hope, when battling despair? How do we cope with this, when the ones we love are lost? 

Christmas is just not the same without John. Without his contagious grin, his holiday spirit. We knew that no matter how little food there was to eat, or how few presents under the tree, John could make us all smile, and be happy. Now we have a full table, laden with delicious food, and gifts enough for everyone. But we also have untouched gifts, just sitting there, all with the same label on them: To: John. We have an empty seat at the table, and nobody to fill it. 

I hope he writes soon, or even that he is well enough to write. I hope a lot of things, and hope they will come true. I am afraid you will be seeing a lot of these hopes, especially those which do not come to pass. Hopes and dreams, all scribbled down in this battered blue journal.

With a heavy heart,  
Clara Major


	2. New Year's Day

January 1st, 1915  
Journal,

Another holiday passed, without our John. A new year, a new opportunity. Or so they say. I would give up New Year after New Year to have John back. I am beginning to see the effects of his absence everywhere. 

Margaret hides in her room. She comes out for meals and chores, but when she does, it is like she is retreating further and further into her own head every time. To a happy, safe place, where she can control reality. But what disturbs me the most is what she does in her room. She simply sits there, staring at the wall, for hours on end. All of her old friends have abandoned her, preferring the company of others, those who will actually talk to them. I worry for her health, but there is nothing I can do.

Linda is worse every passing day. I now no longer see the tears, but that does not mean they aren’t there. She has simply gotten better at hiding them. I am afraid she is following Margaret’s example, and hiding herself away. 

As a mother, what can I do? I myself am no better. All I can do is put a brave face on, show that I am strong, that I can carry on. But what is that but a facade of lies? But one last wish, crumbling before it ever reaches fulfillment? To my children, I must be made of titanium. I must be too strong to break, too strong to give in. But, with each passing day, I feel more and more as if I am cardboard. Flimsy, prone to tear at the slightest aggravation.

How can I be this weak, when my children need me to be strong? I don’t know what to do. I have no confidantes, no peers, no equals. All I have is that empty hole in my soul, where I keep feeding my doubts and fears to. I am afraid that one day, it will swallow me whole. I am even more afraid that there will be nobody there to catch me.

I know nothing. I wish I did, desperately, but I cannot see how this will play out. If John will come home. If I will fall into the endless abyss of my own despairs, dragging my children along with me. I wish. That is all I can do anymore. I wish, and hope it comes to fruition. Because I don’t know what I will do if it doesn’t.

Wishing, waiting, wanting,

Clara Major


End file.
